


Take Me Home

by verysorrytobother



Series: Talk to Me AU [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Caryn Romanoff Pines (mentioned), Country Roads, Filbrick Pines (mentioned) - Freeform, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Ford Pines Needs a Hug, Ford Pines is a Good Brother, I apologize in advance for the gratuitously long singing scene, Mystery Trio, Stan Pines Needs A Hug, Stangst, Take me Home, Talk to Me AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:02:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28077411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verysorrytobother/pseuds/verysorrytobother
Summary: Stan is still recovering from his injury, leaving Ford to wonder what comes next.Meanwhile, Fiddleford really loves his banjo.
Relationships: Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Stan Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Series: Talk to Me AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2056503
Comments: 25
Kudos: 121





	Take Me Home

Fiddleford plucked his banjo softly in the corner, watching as Stanford restlessly paced their hotel room. His back was ramrod straight and his fists were clenched behind him, and he seemed to be muttering to himself. 

“Ford?” Fiddleford finally said, then a bit louder when his friend didn’t show any sign of hearing him. “Stanford, you alright?” 

Ford abruptly stopped and turned to him. “Oh, I’m sorry. Were you saying something?” 

Fiddleford sighed and set his banjo aside. “Ford, Stanley’s doin’ real well, all things considered. And it seems you two’re makin’ up. So why’re you pacin’ like a long-tailed cat in a room full o’ rockin’ chairs?” 

Ford rolled his eyes at Fiddleford’s drawn-out simile and resumed pacing. “I just wish he was healing faster, that’s all. I don’t want to leave him here, but we  _ do  _ have studies to get back to and I’m not sure how much longer we can delay returning. It’s been over a week already.” 

Fiddleford leaned back in his chair. “It’s Backupsmore. I’m not too worried ‘bout catchin’ up,” he said with a frown. “And you ain’t, either. What’s really botherin’ ya?” 

Ford stopped pacing, then slumped defeatedly. “Well, I…” He sat on the edge of his bed and put his head in his hands. The pose was eerily reminiscent of their arrival at the hospital, and Fiddleford swallowed the lump in his throat. “...I’m just worried. They say he’s making a fast recovery, but they still haven’t removed that tube. What if…” 

He trailed off. Fiddleford waited patiently. 

“...What if he never speaks again?” 

Fiddleford’s eyes softened. “Aw, Stanford, is that what this is all about?”

“I mean, it’s bad enough for Stanley,” Ford continued, and now that he was going it seemed like he couldn’t stop. “I can’t imagine, not being able to talk. But I don’t think I can handle our last true conversation being...” Ford swallowed thickly. “...And it’s selfish, I know, but to have not heard his voice in  _ four years,  _ and then when I finally  _ do,  _ it’s…” He sighed and clenched his hair. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sound of Stan’s rattled gasping and that awful  _ gurgling  _ just before the line went dead. 

The bed dipped slightly as Fiddleford sat beside him. He placed a comforting hand on Ford’s shoulder. 

“I don’t pretend ta know what yer goin’ through right now,” he said quietly. “But I don’t think it’s selfish ta want yer brother ta be okay.” He patted his back. “Plus, from what I’ve gathered, Stanley’s a fighter. I think it’ll take more’n  _ this _ to keep ‘im down.” 

Ford chuckled. “Yes, that’s certainly true.” He raised his head. “Thank you, Fiddleford. For being here. I’ve come to realize lately that I don’t always express appreciation when I should, and—” 

His heartfelt thanks was cut off as Fiddleford waved his hand dismissively. “Aw, shucks. It’s th’ least I could do. That’s what friends’r for!” He leaned forward and wiggled his eyebrows comically. “Remember the rabid raccoon?” 

Ford laughed, and Fiddleford felt a grin spreading on his own face. 

Maybe things would be okay. 

* * *

Stanley drummed his pen excitedly on the composition notebook Ford had given him. He’d written and crossed out a few different versions of breaking the news—he’d made it very clear to the doctors that  _ he  _ wanted to be the one to tell Ford, and that if anyone spoiled the surprise, there’d be hell to pay. 

(He was pretty sure they were just humoring him—he wasn’t exactly in tip-top condition to fight. But they’d promised their silence.)

~~_ What’s up, Sixer? _ __ ~~

~~_ My ex-wife still mis _ ~~

~~_ Hey, nerds _ ~~

~~_ Guess who’s back? _ ~~

~~_ Did ya miss me? _ ~~

~~_ Hey Fidds, I lost my num _ ~~

~~_ How’s Ma doin’? _ ~~

_ Thank you  _

Stan furrowed his brow at the paper before scribbling out that last one, too. His reveal needed to be shocking. Dramatic. Witty. Something they’d never see coming. 

Familiar voices floated down the hall, and he quickly flipped the notebook to a blank page. 

“—still can’t believe they let you bring that in, Fiddleford.” 

“Music heals! ‘Sides, Stanley loves it, same as you—he just hasn’t accepted it yet.” 

“I hardly think  _ tolerating  _ qualifies as—”

Stan could practically feel the lightbulb  _ ding!  _ above his head. That was it! He grinned and rubbed his hands together. This was going to be great. Oh, who was he kidding? All of his ideas were great! Well, except the Shammy. And the Rip-Off. And the—

“Hello, Stanley. Apologies, I  _ tried  _ to get Fiddleford to leave the banjo at home.” Ford pulled both chairs closer to the bed, their standard positions during visiting hours. “The doctor tells me you’re making an excellent recovery. Hopefully they’ll be able to remove the tracheostomy tube sometime soon.” 

Stan fought to keep the grin off his face. Wasn’t Ford supposed to be some kind of genius? Sure, there were more bandages around his neck than usual, but he was still pleasantly surprised that Ford hadn’t noticed. 

Then again, Ford seemed a little distracted. He kept averting his eyes and shuffling his feet as he sat down. Was he...nervous? What did he have to be nervous about? 

Fiddleford, on the other hand, was extremely comfortable. He settled into his seat and immediately began playing, humming along to his awful hillbilly music. Stan rolled his eyes, but inside he was jumping with excitement. This was it. He reached for his pen. 

“Um, Stanley, I...I have something for you.” 

Stan stopped, then turned to Ford with a raised eyebrow. Guess today was full of all sorts of surprises. He wrote out,  _ Flowers? It better be violets.  _

Ford chuckled, though he still seemed hesitant. “No, nothing like that. It’s—well, here. See for yourself.” He handed Stan a small package wrapped neatly in newspaper. 

Stan hefted it in his hands for a moment—it was definitely a book, typical Poindexter—before tearing into the paper. 

He froze at the cover staring back at him. 

_ American Sign-Language for Beginners.  _

Ford rubbed the back of his neck, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I know it’s not the most exciting of gifts, but I thought it might be useful until...until you’re better.” 

Stan swallowed the lump in his throat. He blinked rapidly a few times—you’d think that a hospital would be better at keeping things dusted—and slowly wrote out,  _ Thank you.  _

Ford perked up a bit at that. “You know, I’ve been flipping through it myself, and I believe there are all sorts of variations to take into account given my polydactyly…” 

As he rambled, Stan felt a tightness growing in his gut. Ford had bought him a book. Had spent  _ money  _ on him. How was he supposed to tell him that he didn’t even need it? And Ford seemed so excited to learn sign language, Stan didn’t want to spoil that...not to mention, it was the first gift Stan had been given since he was kicked to the curb; he held it closer. Maybe he should hold off on the big reveal. Give it a few days. But then Ford would wonder why he hadn’t said anything before…

Stan was seriously considering becoming a mute permanently when he suddenly realized that he was being ridiculous. 

* * *

He was a bit more nervous about his plan now, and a bit less excited. But he was gonna do it. 

Before he could chicken out, he wrote on the notebook,  _ Fidds, do you take requests?  _ and held it up for the Southern man to see. 

Fiddleford peered at it and grinned. “Well, I reckon I do! See, Stanford, I  _ told  _ you he’d come along!” 

“Perhaps he’s just trying to put an end to whatever it is that you’ve been playing.” 

Fiddleford scoffed good-naturedly. “I’ll have you know that was a classic McGucket jigtune. Now, what’d you have in mind?” 

Stan wrote it down, and Ford groaned. 

“No, Stan, you don’t know what you’ve done!” 

“Too late!” McGucket said cheerfully, and with renewed vigor, he began to strum and sing. 

“Almost heaven...West Virginiaaaa…” 

Ford sighed. “I certainly hope no one nearby is trying to sleep.” 

“Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River…” 

“Fiddleford, we are in a  _ hospital!  _ You could tone it down a tad!” 

“No can do, Stanford! Gotta give the patient what he wants!” 

Stan grinned widely and gave him a double thumbs-up. 

“Life is old there, older than the treeeees…” 

Stan gestured for Ford to sing. Ford adamantly shook his head. 

Stan’s eyes narrowed and he nodded. 

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment. Finally, Ford relented, albeit reluctantly. He cleared his throat, and his low, slightly gravelly voice joined Fiddleford’s reedy twang.  “Younger than the mountains...growing like the breeze.” 

“COUNTRY ROOOOAAADS—”

“ _ Fiddleford!”  _

“—TAKE ME HOOOOMMMEE…” 

“...To the place....” 

“I BELOOONNNGGG!” 

They sang together, and Stanley began clapping along. 

**“WEST VIRGINIA…MOUNTAIN MAMAAAAA…TAKE ME HOOOMME...COUNTRY ROOADS…”**

“All my mem’ries...gather ‘round her…” 

“Miner’s lady, stranger to blue water…” Ford was smiling now, despite himself. 

**“Dark and dusty, painted on the sky!”** Stan jumped as they harmonized, mouth agape in shocked delight. No  _ way.  _

“Misty taste o’ moonshine—”

“—teardrop in my eye!” 

**“COUNTRY ROOOOAAADS...TAKE ME HOOOOMMEE...TO THE PLAAACE...I BELOOONG...WEST VIRGINIAAAA...MOUNTAIN MAMAAAA...TAKE ME HOOOMMEE...COUNTRY ROOADS…”**

Fiddlford stood from his chair so abruptly that he knocked it over. “I hear her voice in the mornin’ hour, she calls me…” 

“The radio reminds me of my home far away…” 

Stan blinked again, hard—they  _ really  _ needed to get someone to dust in here. 

“Drivin’ down the road, I get a feelin’ that should’ve been home yesterday... **yesterday…”**

“COUNTRY ROOOAAADS,” Ford belted out, as Fiddleford began plucking the strings in an intricate and rather impressive frenzy, “TAKE ME HOOOMMEE…”

“To the place…”

**“I BELOONNNG!.....WEST VIRGINIAAAA...MOUNTAIN MAMAAA...TAKE ME HOOOMMEE...COUNTRY ROADS…”**

Both of them were slowing down now, Fiddleford in particular looking quite worn out. Stan took a deep breath to steel himself as they continued to sing. 

**“Country roads…”**

This was it. 

**“Take me home…”**

He was gonna do it. 

**“To the place…”**

He couldn’t. 

**“I belong…”**

He  _ had  _ to. 

**“West Virginia…”**

Last chance. 

**_“Mountain mama…”_ **

Fiddleford and Ford stopped, turning to each other as a third voice joined them. 

They slowly looked at Stan. Identical expressions of shock painted their faces. 

_ “Take me home…” _

It was weak, and raspy, and nowhere close to carrying a tune. 

Yet somehow, Stanley sang.

_ “...country roads.”  _

* * *

For a moment, there was only silence as the three men stared at each other. 

No one moved. No one made a sound. 

Then Fiddleford was whooping, hollering and waving his banjo in the air, and Ford was lunging forward to wrap Stan in a bone-crushing hug and yelling something incoherent, and Stan was yelping and trying to hide his crap-eating grin. A nurse walked by the door, peeked in to view the commotion, then slowly backed out and continued walking. 

They finally settled down, and Ford collapsed into his chair, wiping his eyes. “ _ Moses,  _ Stanley. You could have just  _ told  _ us instead of making us suffer through that entire song.” 

“Eh, you know you loved it,” Stan rasped. His voice was hoarse and breathy, but he was  _ talking,  _ he was  _ really talking  _ and that was good enough for Ford. “I never knew you could sing, Sixer.”

Ford flushed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And besides, you have no proof.”

Stan chuckled, but his smile slowly faded. “Listen, I...uh, I’m...sorry. About your book. You bought it for nothin’.” 

Ford cocked his head to the side, confused. Then he realized what Stan was talking about, and he laughed. 

“Stan, I could care less about the book! I was—well, I was—worried, yes, worried would be the word for it—”

“He was right terrified that you might never speak again,” Fiddleford cut in helpfully. Ford glared at him, but there was no real malice behind it. Fiddleford didn’t seem to notice—he was busy re-stringing his banjo. (Quite a few strings had snapped during his energetic solo.)

“At any rate,” Ford said, “it would be best not to strain your vocal chords too much during your recovery. Perhaps we should learn a few simple phrases, just to use around the house until you’re completely healed. Only the most basic—”

“W-what?” 

“Stanley, is something wrong?” 

“No, it’s just—” He cleared his throat as much as he was able. “You said...around the house?” 

Ford stared at him as though it should be obvious. “Of course! I’m not leaving until you’re completely recovered. I thought that once you were discharged, I could accompany you to your place and assist you until you’re feeling better. I suppose I should have asked first, I apologize for that—”

“No, no, it’s not—” Stan swallowed the rising shame and bit his lip. “Ford, I—I don’t got a house.” 

_ “What?!”  _

Stan wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I live outta the Stanleymobile. So you don’t hafta worry about helping me with—with chores, or whatever.” 

A pause. 

“Stanley! How long have you been living out of your car?!” 

Ford’s tone was...well, it was upset, for sure. But he didn’t sound  _ angry _ , exactly, or ashamed, or disappointed. Just...upset. 

“I dunno, since Pa kicked me out?” 

When Stanley finally risked glancing up, he was met with Ford and Fiddleford’s horrified expressions. 

“Stan,” Ford said, looking sick, “why...why didn’t you _call?”_

Stan looked back down at the bed and twiddled his thumbs.

They both knew why. 

“Welp!” Fiddleford said, jumping from his seat and causing the other two to flinch. “That settles it! Stanley Pines, yer comin’ back with us!” 

Stan and Ford gaped at him.

Fiddleford frowned, then checked behind him to make sure they weren’t staring at something over his shoulder. “What, am I speakin’ in tongues?” 

“No, it’s just that…” Ford hesitated. “I mean, I would  _ love  _ for Stan to stay with us, but...Fiddleford, are you sure?” 

“Well, of  _ course  _ I’m sure!” Fiddleford said, turning to Stan. “We don’t got an extra bedroom or nothin’ fancy like that, but the couch should do the trick for the time bein’, right?” 

Stan’s jaw flapped up and down soundlessly. “I—” he croaked, “I mean—I can’t just—”

He was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

“Please,” Ford said quietly. “If you won’t do it for yourself, then...do it for me.” 

Stan finally met his eyes, and the meaning behind them was loud and clear. 

_ I don’t want to lose you again.  _

Stan buried his face in his hands and cried. 


End file.
